


The Fix

by shakeitout



Category: Hockey RPF, Sports RPF, You Could Make a Life Series - Taylor Fitzpatrick
Genre: F/M, M/M, you could make a life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 17:45:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10541418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shakeitout/pseuds/shakeitout
Summary: Sometimes, Roman just needs.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Resolute](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10472406) by [youcouldmakealife](https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife). 



> This is pure honest nonsense because I couldn’t get The Fix by Nelly out of my head because I heard it at a club this weekend, and then after an Uber contemplating YCMAL universe for some reason, I was home and drunk brain decided this needed to happen.

**** Sometimes Roman just needs. Needs people. Needs interactions because he’s been alone for much of his life. Most of it. One of the only guys his age on the team that’s not married, or at least in a serious relationship with  _ whoever _ . He just  _ needs _ . Human contact. Touch. A bar. Men. Women.  _ Whoever _ . Just  _ something _ .

 

Roman gets lonely, okay.

 

A song plays in his head over and over after hearing it multiple times bar hopping this weekend. ... _ When you need that fix, yeah, that medicine, I know you like it like this, When you get that itch, adrenaline, Heart beating outta your chest… _

That’s probably when all this had started, when they were bar hopping. The team started at a sports bar after their win. It had been a Saturday day game, so after a break for naps and dinner, they started early in the evening. By 11:30pm they were in their third bar, and this one had a distinctly clubby vibe to it. These were the Roman’s favorite. The Last Bar. The one where everybody was doing their own thing, and nobody was watching him. The old men were long gone, and it was just the singles and the fun guys left. Roman had taken a lot of hard hits during the game, and he didn’t get to do much hitting back, so he had a ton of adrenaline left over. Plus he scored. So that’s always a rush. 

 

The point is: Roman needed to make out with somebody. The first logical stage in this plan? Dance floor. He leans up against the bar on the dance floor and orders another drink, taking stock of what he can see, and more importantly: who he can see. Everybody’s out there tonight, including Spoilsport. Seeing Harry dance is always interesting, but he tries not to remember that one. Brain bleach would be helpful again there, he thinks. His eyes roam back to their table to see who’s still holding it down for them, and to his surprise, Connie isn’t at it. Connie always holds down the table. In fact, Roman doesn’t even know if Connie likes to dance, because he doesn’t think he’s even ever seen him dance. He braces himself, and then looks back toward Harry. Connie isn’t floating in that vicinity either. How can a dude who’s such a giant actually get lost in a crowd?

Roman accepts his drink from the bartender, assuming it’s been added to the impressive tab he probably has running for the night, and turns back to the dancefloor. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a blonde head leaning down to talk to somebody. Connie. He must be talking to a girl. Then again, Connie has to lean down to talk to just about everybody these days, so who knows. Roman’s just drunk enough to convince himself that it’s time for him to find a girl of his own. He floats onto the dance floor, and goes up to a girl that had been checking him out while he was at the bar about a hundred times. The DJ starts up a new song, a faster one. It’s vaguely familiar. He sees the blonde head pop up this time, only much closer to him, next to Liam at the bar.

 

“Can I?” he asks. Roman’s always preferred the direct approach.

“Yeah,” she says, pleased. She backs up until they’re flush, and Roman grabs her hips gently, lining them up with his. Sometimes grinding feels a little high school-ish, until she runs her hand up and down his thigh, closer to his outer jeans pocket than anything too forward, but it’s a loud and clear signal for sure. That definitely didn’t happen in high school.

“What’s your name?” he shouts into her ear over the music

“Marissa.”

“Roman,” he replies, distracted, almost like he’d forgotten his own name for a second. “You seem like a nice girl,” he muses.

“I can be,” she’s smirking with her head turned slightly back towards him.

“You seem like a nice guy?” she asks with a question.

“I can be,” he mocks, slightly.

“I don’t want you to be. Not right now at least,” and does this dirty grind with her hips that is basically a billboard for Roman. Loud and clear. Not a nice guy tonight. Good. This was just what he needed. Adrenaline release. The DJ pauses to shout out to all the single ladies for a minute, and then wishes some girl a happy birthday, then starts up a new song.

 

The song comes on for the second or third time tonight, and Roman recognizes it immediately. He’d been distracted humming it since The First Bar. ... _ And when that pressure’s building, I got what you need, come fuck with me, And when you get that feeling, I got sexual healing… _ Roman can’t do this for much longer.

He’s been eyeing Connie since the minute the crowd thinned out slightly, and he and Fitzgerald stepped into view. He can’t stop looking. Harry is probably around shooting him dirty looks, but at this point, he’s a little too drunk to care. He can’t stop staring at Connie’s...everything. Unfortunately he has a perfect view of Connie’s too perfect ass, the way it’s stretching his “good” jeans that he probably only reserves for the bar. They shouldn’t even be tight. He’s just such a giant, they cut right into the swell of his ass and fuck—this is a bad road. He grips Marissa’s hips a little harder, and tucks his fingers into the waistband of her jeans. She swishes her hair to one side, and Roman takes that as an open invite to start kissing her neck. She hums in approval. This is fine right? This totally can work.

 

As the crowd moves, Roman and Marissa get into full view of Connie and Liam propped up against a concrete support pole in the middle of the dancefloor. Liam moves away suddenly, cell phone in hand like he’s taking a call. Princess Brouwer getting antsy, maybe?

Somehow only Connie could look so  _ nice _ in a room full of people literally grinding their junk together, but still not look out of place. It couldn't be more unlike what’s occurring with Roman and Marissa less than three feet away at this point; she grazes his thigh again with the free hand not holding her drink, this time much closer to the inseam of his jeans. Connie’s eyes widen, and suddenly he locks eyes with Roman.

Connie’s mouth is hanging open slightly; Roman gulps. He has no idea what this means. He can’t take it anymore. He turns Marissa around, and kisses her. Right in front of Connie. He keeps his eyes open, because he’s a sadist, and sees the look of hurt flash on Connie’s face, and Roman can’t take that. He closes his eyes and leads Marissa deeper into the kiss. After that, he has no idea of anything around him except for their attempt to multi-task and front-grind while they make out. It mostly just turns into swaying-while-making-out.

Suddenly, or so it seems after Roman’s been lost in practically having sex on the dance for, the bartender flashes the lights twice, and the DJ announces over the mic, “LAST SONG!” Roman pulls his head up from leaning down to peck Marissa one more time, and looks around for Connie.

“I should probably go find my buddies,” he makes his excuses. He can’t see Connie anywhere, and he’s kind of hard to miss.

“Same here. This was fun,” she says, and plants one last kiss on his mouth. “Thanks for not being nice,” and walks away. He didn’t get her number. He had no intention to. She didn’t want him to be nice. He didn’t want to be nice. He didn’t want Connie to get caught in the crossfire though. Connie was too nice. Fuck. Connie.

 

Roman has no idea what he did, but he’s too buzzed and suddenly overly exhausted, all of his adrenaline one hundred perfect drained to even think about it much more as he closes out his tab, leaving the bartender a generous tip so he didn’t have to calculate the math. After a quick scan of where his guys have ended up, he wrangles Liam and orders, “Fitzgerald, let’s get a cab,” walking out into the warm September night before he can think about what the fuck just happened.


End file.
